X-ception
by deinvati
Summary: Arthur and Eames' new case involves dream dens. But it should be fine. Just because dream dens are where humans go to experience mutant powers. Just because it's where mutants go to feel human. It doesn't mean Arthur has to find out that Eames can change to become anyone. Or that his skin is blue. Or that he has a past, and a sibling, he'd rather not mention. Set during DoFP, slash
1. Chapter 1

"_I thought I told you to Just! Fucking! PICK ONE!"_

_Eames flinched and pulled her further behind him, taller than he was but slighter. _

"_It was just a mistake, Dad! She won't do it again."_

"_She better not. Or the both of you can get the hell out of this house, so help me God."_

"_We won't— we promise. We promise. We promise."_

Eames jerked awake, sweating and breathing hard, his teeth firmly clenched to keep his face still, the habit of years. Quickly, he checked the man sleeping next to him.

Arthur's slow, even breaths soothed his shattered nerves and he slept on, oblivious. When Eames ran a tentative hand over his skin, it felt clammy, and he pulled the sheets over Arthur as a precaution when he headed for the shower. Might as well get up. There was no going back to sleep after that.

Arthur in his bed was new, and he bloody well liked it, but goddamn it had been a long time since he'd had someone else in his space like this. He scrubbed himself clean and rinsed memories and lactic acid down the drain. He would just have to be more on his game, that's all. If last night was any indication, it was fucking worth it.

When he exited, Arthur was awake and pulling on his clothes, sitting on the side of the bed while the early morning light eked in the window.

"You leaving?" Eames said, rubbing his head with one towel, another tucked around his waist. He was careful to keep the question neutral.

"Yeah, just gonna grab some fresh clothes and a shave." Arthur's voice sounded tired still. His hair stuck up everywhere and Eames longed to run his fingers through it.

He debated offering to let Arthur use his razor, and stopped himself from offering to let him keep a change of clothes in his drawer. He let himself say, "Want some coffee first?"

"Nah, I'll get some at the office," he said, blearily rubbing his eyes as he tugged on his sock.

Eames snorted. "That stuff is rubbish. I'll make you a to-go cup and you can refill it later, but at least don't start your day like that."

Arthur gave him a tired smile. "Yeah, alright."

Eames grabbed a pair of trackies and slid them on, then left Arthur to his own devices while he started a pot. It was quiet. Almost domestic. Almost like a plan.

When Arthur emerged from Eames' bedroom, his hair was scraped back again and his tie was knotted perfectly. Eames handed him his mug and pulled it askew.

Arthur gave him a look but didn't right it, and Eames felt prouder than he should have. He grinned and pecked Arthur on the lips.

"Have a good day at the office, darling."

Then he grabbed Arthur's arse, just because it was there, in his kitchen.

Arthur's eyebrows drew together, but there was no heat in it. "Watch it, Mr. Eames."

Eames chuckled as Arthur grabbed his briefcase holding his woefully unfinished report and held the door open for him. "That's Detective Eames to you, Detective."

Arthur paused on the threshold, a tiny smile twisting his lips. Then, to Eames' surprise, he leaned in and kissed Eames, a short, dry press of lips. "See you there."

"Hmm," Eames hummed because he couldn't think of a damn thing to say.

Eames looked in the mirror, razor in one hand, shaving foam in the other and looked at his face. He studied the lines, debating, but his birthday was in four months. That was soon enough. It was his yearly present to himself. He put the razor down and rubbed his eyes, tired. A good tired, though. A muscle ache-y, no sleep in the best way kind of tired. He practiced a grin at his reflection.

When he got to work, Arthur was already there, settled into the desk across from him and fighting back a yawn while he glared at the report he was typing up. The case they'd just wrapped was going to be labeled unsolvable, and that always put Arthur on edge. Stolen artwork, highly valuable, highly gone without a trace. He knew Arthur wasn't losing sleep over the art, just the fact that he hadn't cracked it. But Eames smirked to himself as he remembered exactly what Arthur _was _losing sleep over.

He watched Arthur's wrists as they worked the typewriter, his forearms as they flexed, the wiry muscle disappearing under the rolled shirtsleeves. He thought about how to get Arthur into his bed again tonight.

"Eames," Arthur said without looking up, "you finished with your report already?"

"Just done, darling." He unrolled the paper and handed it over. Arthur looked up at him with an eyebrow raised and Eames just smiled. Arthur glanced over it with a sigh and handed it back before bending over the keys again.

"You know your creative spelling isn't actually a point in your favor."

"Yes, but my creative spelling is what sets our reports apart. Otherwise, the chief might think I copied your homework."

Arthur hummed and ignored him, and Eames bit his lip. "You know," he started, prepared to propose dinner, or coffee, or a drink, or just another shag, really, whatever Arthur wanted.

"EAMES! ARTHUR! MY OFFICE!"

Arthur frowned and stood, his eyes skating over Eames to the chief's office where they were being heralded, and he rolled his sleeves down and straightened his already immaculate tie. Eames just tried to calm the rolling in his gut. The chief couldn't have found out about them sleeping together already. It had only been once. Well, it had only been one night. Technically, it had been several times.

"What the hell is this about?" Arthur grumbled as he grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair.

And Eames, who had stared at Arthur across the desk for nine months, wanting and wanting and not taking and wishing he'd chosen a different look, something that would make Arthur want him back, but it was too late now, until miraculously it wasn't, just shrugged and grinned. "Search me."

Arthur's frown didn't disappear, but he waited for Eames to come around the desk so they could walk into Cobb's office together.

"Chief," Arthur greeted him with a nod, but Cobb wasn't alone.

"Mr. Saito, this is Detective Eames and Detective Condon. They'll be assigned to your case."

Eames didn't hear the next part because relief was making his heartbeat drum in his ears. It wasn't over, at least not yet.

"I've sent you the case file, but since Mr. Saito is here, I thought you might want to ask him a few questions."

Arthur took the chair next to the elegant businessman and pulled out the Moleskine notebook he kept in his jacket pocket. "Certainly. What can you tell us, Mr. Saito?" like he hadn't just been made aware of the case ten seconds before.

Mr. Saito, tall, dignified, spoke slowly, with a Japanese accent. "About a month ago, I visited a dream den. After my session, I was contacted via postal mail that if I did not comply with the sender's wishes, the content of my dream would be revealed to a national tabloid."

Arthur was taking notes like that wasn't the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard. Eames shifted his weight.

"Which dream den did you visit?"

Saito gave him the address.

"Do you still have the letter?"

Those were important questions, to be sure, but Eames would have started with, "Why, what did you dream about?" but that was why Arthur generally took the lead for this portion.

"The original letter I discarded, but I gave the letters I've received since to Chief Cobb. I don't have proof, but I believe someone was watching the dream, or recording it in some way, and that's how they plan to reveal it."

"Why didn't you report this at the time?" Eames asked.

Saito turned in his seat slightly to frown at Eames. "Apparently you are not aware of why blackmail works."

"Mr. Saito, what exactly are the blackmailer's demands?" Arthur broke in.

Saito scrutinized Eames for another beat before turning to Arthur. "I am speaking at a political convention later this month. The letters suggested that I not attend, that I withdraw my backing of a certain political candidate, and that I donate a large sum of money to agencies whose political leaning I personally disagree with."

"Which agencies?" Eames asked.

The way Saito managed to look down his nose at Eames even though he was seated was unnerving. "Mutant Rights Now, The Alliance of Evil, and the Resistance," he said.

"How very… telling," Eames said, giving him a tight smile.

Cobb cut off Saito's retort with a hurried, "But we are absolutely going to look into this, find out who is behind the blackmail, and bring them to justice to the full extent of the law. Mr. Saito, I have your contact information so we will be in touch. Thank you for your time today."

He hummed and stood, buttoning his coat as he looked disdainfully at Eames. "Good day, gentlemen."

Arthur stood also and re-pocketed his notebook. "Pleasure to meet you," he murmured.

Eames raised an eyebrow.

"Listen," Cobb glowered as soon as Saito was gone, "whatever your political stance, you put it aside for this one, you got it? Forensics is already working on the letters and they're going to send the results directly to me as soon as they're done, so check in for once. You two are going to finish this case, fast, with a _successful_ result this time, and you're not going to fuck up. Is that clear?" He leaned his hands on his desk. "If you fuck this up, you're done."

Eames nodded with an exaggerated frown. "No, I'd say that's very clear. Thanks for the specific-ality."

"Specificity," Arthur corrected without thinking. Eames nodded seriously.

Cobb glared at them. "Get out of my office and do some police work."

They chorused 'yes, sir's' and Eames grabbed his holster and jacket from his desk. Then he watched Arthur's arse all the way to their car.

"You ever been to a dream den?" Eames asked as he watched Arthur read the map from the glove compartment. He didn't particularly feel like discussing political stances on the Mutant Registration Act.

Arthur snorted. "On our salary? Not likely. You?"

"Never saw the need," Eames said. "My life is already pretty dream-like." He grinned at Arthur and Arthur rolled his eyes like he knew he would. God, Eames wanted to kiss him.

"Does that mean you wouldn't? Even if you could afford it?"

"Nah," Eames shrugged. "What for?"

Arthur looked at him curiously as he signaled and pulled into traffic. "Seriously? You're not even a little bit curious what it would be like to have mutant powers?"

Eames stilled. "Well, I do have a pretty good imagination, as it happens. What about you, Arthur? Ever dream of dreaming of being a mutant?"

Arthur kept his eyes on the road and his hands on the wheel as he shrugged. "Sure. I thought everyone wished they were able to fly. Or be invisible."

"Tsk." Eames shook his head. "The most generic imagination imaginable. I'm disappointed, darling. What do you think Saito picked?"

"Nothing saying he had to pick a dream where he got mutant powers."

"Uh huh," Eames said, "sure, but what do you think he picked?"

Arthur grinned. "No idea. Hey, can I ask you something?"

Eames' gut clenched. "Shoot."

"Why us? Saito is a huge name in this town. He's going to want results, and the exposure could be huge. Why didn't he give this to Nash and Tadashi?"

Eames relaxed and rolled his shoulders as he sighed. "Because we're middle of the road, darling. They can afford to lose us, or they can afford to promote us. They can't afford either with the golden boys."

Arthur thought about that, then grumbled, "I'm not middle of the road. You're middle of the road."

Eames laughed. They didn't talk the rest of the way, and he was grateful, watching Arthur navigate gears and traffic.

"Good morning, gentlemen and welcome to Somnacin, Inc. What can we do for you today?"

Arthur reached for his badge and Eames spoke up instead.

"We were thinking about doing a dream session, but we don't know much about it. Do you do tours or anything like that?"

"Of course, we can certainly answer any questions you might have."

The tall, slender woman at the highly polished front desk smiled at him placidly and Eames inclined his head when it became obvious she was finished speaking. "Uh, okay," he chuckled awkwardly, "I'm not exactly sure which questions to ask."

Her smiled appeared painted on. "Of course. Why don't you tell me what you know and I can fill in any gaps."

Eames looked at Arthur, who raised his condescending eyebrows and blinked a "you got yourself into this, you get yourself out," at him.

"Well, it's shared dreaming, yeah? That you get to pick the dream?"

"That is correct, sir. We offer several packages, or for an additional cost, you can customize every detail. This pamphlet covers our most popular adventure packages, and this one our most popular romantic packages." She handed him both and smiled again, and Eames looked at her, as light and airy as the foam on a fancy coffee, and about as useful.

"Right, thanks love. We'll, uh, we'll just look these over."

He tapped them on the counter and turned to Arthur with a helpless shrug. Arthur looked at him balefully and then rolled his eyes before leading the way back to the car.

"I'm sorry, darling, I thought we'd maybe get a peek behind the curtain or something if we looked like prospective customers."

Arthur scowled at him over the hood of the car, then slid behind the driver's seat without a word.

"What?" Eames said, his blood getting a little heated. "How was I supposed to know she'd be the most unhelpful salesperson of all time?"

"Eames," Arthur said with exaggerated patience and Eames had to remind himself what a fantastic lay Arthur was. "Look at your suit. Do you really think she thought we were actually going to have the money to pay for a dream session? We should have just flashed our badges and asked to see the manager."

"And what good would that have done?" Eames countered, genuinely annoyed now. It's not like this was his first rodeo. "Excuse me, sir, we'd like to know if you've been using dreams to blackmail people. Oh, you haven't? Well, thank you for your time!"

Arthur sighed at him and dropped it, taking a drink from the travel mug he had in the cupholder. Eames' travel mug. Arthur saw him notice it and blushed a little, and it did wonders at improving Eames' mood.

"Well, it's too late now. Let's go back to the office and see if we can get approved to expense an undercover dream session."

"Say, now," Eames said. "There's an idea. And here I was this whole time saying you were a stick in the mud."

Arthur grumbled something that sounded like, "I'll put a stick in your mud," and executed a perfectly legal u-turn, complete with signalling. Eames grinned.

Chief Cobb hit the fucking roof. He ranted for ten minutes about their budget, about prior approval for undercover work, about marching their asses back in there and getting un-undercover, and personally held Eames and Arthur responsible for stopping all the department improvements he had planned for the next ten years. Then when he got done, Arthur told him if he wanted results, this was how they got them, and Cobb signed the expense report for one (1) shared dream session for the two of them. They'd better make it count because it would never happen again, etc, etc.

Arthur added a pair of sunglasses when they stepped back out of the station, and Eames had to look away. "So much for police work for the day. Come on," he said to Eames, heading toward their car. "We've got to buy you a new suit."

Eames didn't mind buying something new and while Arthur groaned and acted put out, left on his own Eames would have been done in ten minutes. Arthur, however, spent three bloody hours making him try things off the rack. He sighed when Eames refused bespoke, knowing he'd be eating beans on toast the way it was, and _finally _settled on a navy pinstripe with a patterned shirt.

"Are those bunny rabbits, darling?"

Arthur glanced at him, frowning like he was being mocked. "Just wear it, Eames."

"Oh, absolutely. You've captured my soft and cuddly side perfectly."

The clothes got them a different reaction the next day.

Eames, knowing exactly what Miss Coffee Froth expected, poured on the accent. "Good morning, love. I would like to set up an appointment for our consultations." He made no eye contact, just pulled out the billfold he'd borrowed for this occasion, and the fountain pen he wasn't sure actually worked.

Coffee Froth blinked at him and changed her fucking tune. "Certainly. Mr...?"

He gave her a sharp look. "Unless you have an opening right now, otherwise I'm not available for another week. What are your schedules like for mid-May?"

"Of course, sir, we can fit you and your..."

"Partner," Eames clipped.

"...partner in for individual consultations now, and we can schedule the dream for whenever is convenient for you."

"Hmm," Eames grunted, like she hadn't just given him exactly what he'd wanted. "Fine. Consider this a trial run. One shared dream and we'll see if it's anything we're interested in." Then he leaned in conspiratorially. "And just so you are aware, Arthur is notoriously hard to impress."

He refitted the billfold and the pen in his jacket and held out an arm for the besuited man next to him. "Darling?"

He could see the eyeroll Arthur held back and swallowed the smile which threatened to break loose. Then Coffee Froth led the way.

"Mr. Arthur, you can wait here," she said, indicating a small, expertly decorated room with a conference table and two chairs, "And you, sir, can wait here. Your personal consultants will be along shortly to facilitate your request."

"We're doing a shared dream. But we still have separate consultations?"

"Yes, sir. And the results of the blood draw we do today will be shared with you individually as well. This is a very professional office. Somnacin, Inc. prides itself on its customers' safety first of all, satisfaction second, and confidentiality above all."

Eames hesitated. "Blood draw? For what reason?"

Arthur looked at him, a strange blank look on his face and Eames gave them both a nervous smile. "Just not fond of needles is all."

"Well, the PASIV machine which we use to administer the Somnacin is an intravenous device."

"So, no pill form or anything like that?" Eames asked.

"Unfortunately not," she said, not sounding like it was all that unfortunate. "Will that be an issue, sir?"

"No, no," Eames assured her, and hopefully Arthur too. "Not a problem. Cheers." He entered his own consultation room and Coffee Froth closed the door behind him.

He expected the sort of wait you'd have in a doctor's office, but he was mistaken. A petite young woman with a clipboard entered minutes later.

"Hello," she said, friendly and warm. "I'm just here to get your details and make sure you're getting the dream experience you'd like. Can I get your name?"

"Tom Jones."

Her fingers hesitated over her form and she looked up at Eames. "Sir," she said carefully, "I should tell you that your information is completely confidential at Somnacin, Inc, and is one of our top priorities."

"You should tell me, or you're required to tell me?" Eames said, trying to get a handle on the unease roiling in his stomach. All this talk of blood work and personal details was starting to put his back up.

The young woman hesitated and then smiled, a genuine smile. "I'm going to run a credit check to make sure you're good for the payment and start a portfolio of your dream requests for future visits. That's all I'm doing with the information."

"A credit check? I thought the payment was due up-front."

She gaped and said, "Well, yes, I suppose it is..."

"And what exactly is the blood work for?"

"Oh, that," she said, looking a little more confident. "That's just to make sure you're not carrying any communicable diseases that could be passed on to fellow dreamers, and to get genetic markers for your mutation."

Panic clutched at Eames' chest.

"... my what?" he breathed.

"Your mutation," she repeated. "Everyone's a little bit different, but your mutant powers will definitely be affected once you're in the dream state, and—"

She kept talking, but Eames couldn't breathe and stars started to dance around the edges of his field of vision. He forced himself to take a breath, which only served to make his head throb and adrenaline dump into his veins. His hands started to shake and he broke out in a sweat. He licked his lips and tried to slow his breathing, gulping air where before he couldn't make his lungs work.

"Sir? Sir? Mr... Jones?"

She was next to him suddenly, pressing his head down until he was folded in half, head between his knees.

"Oh, Christ," he gasped, "I think I'm having a heart attack."

"Just stay right there," she said, and Eames squeezed his eyes shut and tried to will himself to _not _have a heart attack.

Then she was gone and Eames had to get out of there, had to put distance between himself and this. Had to get away. Had to hide.

Then the door opened again and she was back, draping a cool towel over the back of his neck.

"Okay, Mr. Jones, you're going to be alright. Just breathe with me. I want you to take a deep breath and hold it for four counts. Can you do that?"

Eames nodded and followed her instructions. In. Out for four counts. In. Out.

Slowly, his vision cleared and his breathing slowed. He felt wrung out and shaky, but he was able to sit up and blink at the woman who had saved his life.

"How... how did you do that?" he asked. "Are you a mutant? With some kind of heart attack stopping power?"

She laughed, a bright, happy sound. "No. Just a regular, boring old human. But you weren't having a heart attack."

He blinked at her.

"Panic attack," she said with a wry smile. "I get them too sometimes. You okay?"

Eames took the towel off his neck and kept his eyes on it, watching him run his fingers over the material. "Yeah, I guess I am at that." He cleared his throat. "Thank you, love."

"Ariadne," she said. "But you can call me Ari."

"Ariadne," he said, trying it out, and he studied her warm brown eyes, a few shades lighter than Arthur's. "What made you think I was a mutant?"

Her eyes widened. "Ohmygosh, was I wrong? I'm so sorry, sir, I didn't mean to—"

"No," Eames stopped her. "No, you... you weren't wrong. It's just," he huffed an almost laugh. "I haven't told anyone that in several decades. How did you know?"

She looked at him helplessly. "I don't know. I've just been doing this a while, and I sort of get a feeling?"

Eames folded and re-folded the towel in his hands. He hummed and pressed his lips together.

"Are... are you really okay?"

Eames flashed her his own coffee froth smile. "Right as rain, Ari. Thank you again. What did you need from me again?"

"Uh," she looked down at her paper again. "Your... name?"

Eames let himself laugh and felt his skin shift, a stretching shiver as his appearance re-arranged itself. There was a relief there too, like when your neck finally popped.

"Tom Jones," he said again. He hadn't seen a picture of the man recently, so it probably wasn't perfect, but she might not even be old enough to know who Tom Jones was, so he wasn't fussed. "But you can call me Eames."

Ari laughed again, the warm sound washing over him. "That's amazing! Can you do anyone?"

"I don't, usually," he admitted quietly. "Just myself."

"What do you normally look like?" she asked, curious. But it was a spear in Eames' heart.

"Like a mutant," he said. "Look, I know this probably isn't part of your confidentiality protocol, but," he glanced at the door behind him, "the man I came in with doesn't know, and I'd really like to keep it that way. Is that a possibility?"

Ari waffled. "Well," she said, "as I said, mutations look different in dreamspace. More than likely you just won't have powers, but occasionally they become stronger, or manifest in a watered down, slightly different way. Not sure what yours would look like though."

Eames hummed again. "And I can't request a different mutation?"

She grimaced. "Sorry," and she sounded like she meant it. "You can't. Humans can, but mutants generally come here to see what it's like to live without a mutation for a while."

"Will I be able to control it if it does show up?"

She shrugged. "Unfortunately there's no way to know for sure. It's possible. But when you first wake up in the dream, you won't have any powers engaged. You'll just have to try it and see."

"Is there any way to do a trial run first?"

Ari blinked, her eyebrows drawn together, and checked her screen. "I thought this was your trial run."

Eames sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Right. Okay. Uh... is there anyone else in the dream?"

In a flash, Ari went from friendly and warm to closed off. She fidgeted, she didn't look him in the eye. "What do you mean?" she said. She might have been the worst liar he'd ever seen.

Eames raised an eyebrow. "I mean like a guide or something. My being a mutant isn't exactly public knowledge, and I'm not exactly sure how that would go over in several areas."

"Mutant profiling is highly illegal and—"

"Ari," Eames chided, and she wilted under his knowing tone. "I need to know. It could mean my job, my partner..." he trailed off and put on his best woe-is-me face.

Ari licked her lips. "Your information is completely confidential at Somancin, Inc, and it is one of our top priorities."

"So. There will be others?"

Ari shifted. "Look, we don't advertise this, but sometimes we combine dream sessions if multiple people select the same standard package. But don't worry!" she insisted. "Dream space is infinite, and the chances of you meeting another dreamer are infinitesimal. And if you're really concerned, you can request something custom and you'll have your own dream."

Eames tucked that piece of information away. "Okay, but what about the guide?"

Ari folded her hands under the table, fidgeting. "Nope, nope. There's not a guide—"

"But what if we get in trouble or there's a medical emergency? What if I have another attack? You don't send anyone down with the dreamers?"

Ari shook her head slowly. "People topside will be monitoring your vitals, and worst case scenario, if you die in a dream you wake up. Nothing to worry about."

Just as she said the word, 'worry', Eames felt a nudge at his knee, then a piece of paper brush his hand. He looked down in surprise, but Ariadne cleared her throat and looked deliberately at the upper corner of the room.

They were being recorded. Of course they were. Eames closed his eyes at his own stupidity and folded his fingers over the piece of paper, making it disappear with an old sleight-of-hand trick. Ari gave him a tight smile.

"But I should get your current contact information on file. Sound good?"

"Sure, yeah," Eames said, and he gave her his actual phone number. Maybe she'd call him and he could finish questioning her without giving himself away or getting her fired.

When they were done with the preliminary demographics, which Eames made up on the spot, Ari took his blood, labeling it carefully, and then removed her gloves. "Have you and your partner discussed the package you'd like?"

Eames opened his mouth to make up another answer and then paused. "No, actually, we haven't. If he's already picked something, I think that's probably fine? But we didn't actually talk about it."

Ari smiled encouragingly. "That's okay. No rush. Do you know if he's thinking a package or a custom dream? We only need a few hours heads up for a package dream, but custom dreams can take anywhere from a few days to a few weeks to set up, depending on the complexity."

Again, he opened his mouth to answer before wondering if maybe Arthur did care. He shrugged. "Sorry, love. I'm guessing a package, but I didn't clear it with him."

"Well, I'm sure he appreciates being with someone who cares about what he wants so much." Ari smiled.

Eames raised an eyebrow at her knowing tone. "Hmm. Yes, I'm sure," he said noncommittally.

When he finally escaped the small room, Eames felt fatigued in a way he didn't even after a long workout. His whole body ached and even his eyeballs felt tired. Arthur, in the waiting room flipping through a magazine which he tossed on the table as soon as he caught sight of Eames, looked fresh as a daisy.

Arthur looked Eames over with concern, then informed Coffee Froth that they'd be in touch after they consulted their assistants to schedule the appointment. He paid the deposit and led Eames out the door with a hand on his elbow. Eames tried not to read into it.

When he sank into the passenger seat, he grabbed the folded piece of paper where he'd snuck it into his jacket pocket. It just said, 'Yes.'

Eames sighed as Arthur started the car.

"You look like shit."

"Ta, darling."

"What happened in there?"

"Well," Eames started, his body feeling even heavier, "they run multiple groups of dreamers in the same dream, but they didn't think it was very likely an unrelated dreamer could have followed Saito. They do, however, have employees who sneak into dreams off the books."

The car swerved as Arthur jerked to look at Eames. "How the hell did you find all that out?"

"The girl who was assigned to me. I faked a panic attack. We bonded."

Arthur looked at him, even more concerned. "You… faked a panic attack? Wow. Faking emotional needs, that's… pretty, um, dedicated."

"You know, I actually am not feeling well, would you mind dropping me round my flat? I will type everything up, I promise."

Arthur glanced at Eames, frowning. "Okay, sure."

He signaled his lane change and checked his blind spot. "I guess I'll just see you tomorrow."

"Brilliant, thanks."

Fuck. Eames laid his head back on the seat and avoided Arthur's questioning glances.

In the relative safety of his flat, he paced out his nervous energy and tried to figure a way out of sharing a dream with Arthur. Arthur could technically do the dream by himself. But Arthur was his partner. It was his job, and his _privilege _to watch his back. Plus, there was no good way to explain why he couldn't. He couldn't pretend to be sick forever.

He paced until he gave in and went to stare at his reflection. When he finally sat down to write up his report, he had no idea if it was coherent and shoved it in his briefcase before he could re-read it. Then he went to bed.

* * *

Eames showed up early the next day, a bit sheepish, and with coffee. Arthur didn't say anything about the cup on his desk, but he drank it. He didn't give Eames back his travel mug and he didn't ask how he was feeling.

"So," Eames said, "here's my report. What did you find out?"

"Nothing, my person was new. I tried, but they couldn't have told me if they had dental coverage, let alone if someone is using the den as their own personal nest egg."

"Personal nest egg? But the blackmail money was supposed to be donated to causes. You think it's a scam and they're going to profit off this somehow?"

"No idea. That's what I'm going to find out today."

Eames threw his head back dramatically and slumped in his chair. "Ah Christ, not this already. Come on, darling, it's day two of this thing. Surely we can do at least _some _field work before you bury your head in a ledger."

"Follow—

" — the money, yes, I know. You say it every bloody time."

Arthur shrugged, unperturbed. "Works just as often as you pounding the pavement and/or people's faces, and doesn't require me to scuff my shoes or get suspended."

"That happened once, Arthur, and that prick deserved it."

Arthur didn't argue, just sipped his latte and clacked at his keyboard some more. Eames sighed. "Alright, talk me through it at least. What are you thinking?"

"Well," Arthur said, leaning back from his desk, "we don't know if this is an isolated event or if they're gathering information on all their customers. Now that we're undercover," he gave Eames a look, "we can try to find out."

Eames gave him a look right back. "Well, now you get to live out your lifelong dream of being able to fly. You're welcome. So, we go into the dream, and then what? Do something scandalous? See if anyone comes knocking? I've got to believe that Saito isn't the only one to do something scandalous in a dream."

Arthur frowned, thinking, and Eames felt a tug he tried to ignore. That face was the one which made him want things.

"True. Maybe it's more common than we thought. If they're running this scam at more than just one den, maybe it's corporate-wide."

"What if you chase your money and I start asking questions at some of the other Somnacin locations?"

"It's '_follow'_, don't make me sound like a skeezy lawyer. And fine. Do we need to ask Cobb to shell out some more for another dream?"

"God, no, I don't want to hear another one of those speeches if I can help it. I'll play it by ear. I've still got a suit I won't be able to wear to anything else."

Arthur looked appalled. "That suit is a classic style, you could wear—"

"Alright, alright, keep your pants on. I was only taking the piss."

Arthur went back to his files, his customary farewell, and Eames stood to collect his things. "Just out of curiosity," he asked, slipping into his holster, "what mutant power _are _you going to pick?"

Arthur looked up at him. "Ice powers. Why? What did you pick?"

Eames gave him a crooked smile and faltered. "Well, I guess you'll have to wait and see."

When Eames drug himself back to the station, the lights were mostly off and only one person was still working.

"Arthur, darling, did you wait up for me?"

He looked up from a stack of papers taller than he was and blinked owlishly. "No, asshole, I'm working."

"Awww, that means yes. You are too sweet."

To Eames' surprise, Arthur ducked his head, his face reddening. "Shut it. How'd it go?"

Eames collapsed into his chair and picked up the poker chip he liked to roll over his knuckles when he was thinking, reveling in the man in front of him.

"Not sure, actually. I was able to get a few names of former clients, but they're pretty closed-mouthed overall."

Arthur raised an eyebrow and sat back, crossing his arms. "Former clients?"

"Don't bother, I already checked." Eames rubbed his forehead. "They're on record as being either a formal spokesperson or publicly speaking positively about dreaming. No chance of blackmail there, I don't think." He stretched. "Bloody hell. I talked all day and the only thing helpful I've got is a bit of the basics of dreaming. What have you got?"

Arthur sat back in his chair and Eames wondered when Arthur had eaten last. "I made carbon copies for you about some of the mutant rights organizations where Saito was supposed to send the money. Basic history, known associates, that kind of thing. Nothing tied to Saito, of course, but nobody's that stupid."

Eames snorted and watched the curve of Arthur's neck.

"I've done some preliminary investigation on the owner/manager of the den Saito frequented," he continued, unaware, "and from what I can tell, he's, at _most,_ a mutant ally. Nothing fanatical that I can find, no criminal record beyond some weed when he was a teenager, and no connections to the organizations in question."

He hesitated and Eames pulled his mind out of the gutter enough to raise an eyebrow.

"But you know who does have a connection to the organizations in question?"

Eames' other eyebrow joined the first.

"Robert Fischer."

Eames looked at Arthur blankly. "Who the fuck is Robert Fischer?"

"He's the son of the man who owns Fischer-Morrow, and Fischer-Morrow owns…"

"... Somnacin, Inc?" Eames guessed.

"Bingo."

Eames sat back in his chair. "Huh." He let that spin in his head for a bit, then saw Arthur's jaw-cracking yawn.

"One case at a time, Detective Condon," Eames said, rising. He came around to perch on the edge of Arthur's desk and lean into the other man's space. "Now, your money chasing scheme was very clever and I commend you for your work here today, but," he lowered his voice, his lips inches from Arthur's ear, "it is very late, and we are going to get the hell out of here. First, I am going to feed you. And then I'm going to take you back to mine, and I'm going to rub this suit over every inch of your gorgeous skin. Then I am going to strip down and do filthy, unspeakable things to you— things which are going to make you moan. And shiver. And beg. I am going to bring you right to the edge, over and over again, until you can't—"

"Hey, guys! Burning the midnight oil?"

Eames looked up at the cheery intrusion of one of the shift cops coming off duty and put on his brightest smile. "Say, oil! There's an idea!"

The other cop laughed at the joke he didn't quite understand, got his files, and fucked off. Eames wished, and not for the first time, he had some sort of berserker rage mutation.

Arthur, facing straight ahead, licked his lips and cleared his throat. "Uh, you said something about getting something to eat. That, um. That sounds good."

Eames lowered his voice again and leaned even closer, lips brushing Arthur's neck. "Hmmm. Darling. I can think of something I'd like to eat."

And Arthur, tie loosened, sleeves rolled back, a little bit un-done, looked away. "Fuck," he whispered.

Eames smirked. "Did you want to take care of that right now?" he asked, nodding at Arthur's lap.

Arthur turned to glare at him. "Get your fucking coat."

Eames grinned. "Yes, sir."


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur parked the car outside Somnacin, Inc., his mind full of mutant powers, shared dreaming, a tiny bit excited about what they were going to do. He looked over at Eames, who appeared to be less than thrilled as he stared at the brochures without seeing them. Then he noticed Arthur watching.

"So," Eames said, flipping the pamphlets back and forth, "why would Outer Space be both a romantic pack as well as an adventure pack?"

"Sex in zero gravity," Arthur answered, taking out his Moleskine and trying to retain his air of professional calm. He reviewed his notes.

"Ah. Well, if we do romantic, do we get to have sex in space?" Eames waggled his eyebrows.

Arthur gave him a look. "Probably not."

Eames groaned, throwing his head back. "Knew you'd say that. Okay, so adventure would let us move around more, but romantic might make the perps feel they're less likely to get caught? What did Saito choose?"

"Custom," Arthur replied without looking it up.

Eames snorted. "Figures. Well, that's not happening. Christ, I wonder what kind of a cheap date Cobb must be."

He was laying it on thick this morning, Arthur thought as he reviewed his notes one last time. All smiles and flirting when Arthur was looking, heavy and quiet when he wasn't. Trying to keep him at arm's length, Arthur supposed. He just wished he knew if it was because of this case or because they were sleeping together.

He'd thought at first that Eames was worried about the results of the blood test. They were being careful, of course, and if wasn't as if being worried and withholding information were the same thing. While Arthur was sure Eames would tell him if he knew there was something to worry about, it had still felt like a kick in the gut when he'd made up that bullshit about being afraid of needles.

Arthur looked over at the man beside him, who was trying not to look anxious as hell, and felt a flare of anger. He trusted Eames with his life. His job depended on it, and Arthur was the _best_ at his job. He had more closed cases than any other individual detective on the force, not that he was going to point that out to anyone. Switching departments and partners had been a strategic move, but Eames was smart and they brought out good in each other. He'd assumed when they started having sex it would only make their work better, but if anything, Eames seemed more closed off than ever.

Eames leered at him. "Well, I vote we do the romantic and just agree here and now to leave a few things out of the report."

And just like that, Arthur had had enough. "Stop it. Just stop it, alright?"

Eames, for his part, looked genuinely surprised. "Stop what?"

Arthur sighed through his nose, trying to get a handle on the flare of anger in his chest. Eames was just nervous, it was a normal reaction. "Look, I've been reading up on this, and I'm assuming you have too. And I know that there's a pretty significant chance in shared dreaming that things can pop up you didn't intend to share. I don't know if that's what's going on with you right now, but I'm not going to hold anything we see in there against you, and I sure as hell hope you'd show me the same courtesy." Eames was staring out the windshield, his lips pursed together, telling Arthur he was hitting the nail on the head. "And the fact that I have to say that out loud, considering where I woke up this morning, is pissing me off."

Eames licked his lips and forced a smile, this time rueful and a little sad. "Yeah, well…" he said, trailing off.

Arthur frowned. "Eames." He waited until Eames looked at him. "Let's just focus on the job, okay? We've got work to do, and I need you watching my back, alright? Can you do that?"

Eames raised his eyebrows and gave a half laugh. "Condescension. Well, that brings me back. Yes, pet, I can do that. And out of respect, I will watch your whole back and not just your backside."

Arthur glared, but the tension was broken. "Dick."

"Ah ah," Eames warned. "Only if you ask nicely."

Arthur rolled his eyes but knew his dimples were threatening, and he got out of the car. Eames did the same, buttoning his jacket and smoothing his hair, and Arthur realized how undone Eames really had been in front of him. He felt a little sheepish.

A different receptionist greeted them, smiling at Eames' exaggerated accent and leading them down the back hallway, after they'd paid, of course. "Right this way, gentlemen," she schmoozed, then sauntered ahead of them on heels far too high for a job where you stood on your feet all day. He wondered what their typical foot traffic looked like at each of these branches and what he wouldn't give to get his hands on their books for a few hours. Hell, this case could probably be solved right then and there.

"Mr. Jones, you can have a seat right here," she simpered, "and Mr. Miller—"

"Ariadne! How are you, my love!"

"Hello, Eames," said the tiny brunette grinning from ear to ear. She was wearing a lab coat but Arthur could see her squeeze his upper arms as Eames leaned in to kiss her cheek. He raised an eyebrow.

"How did you get stuck with us, then?" Eames asked with a genuine smile.

"Requested you," she said. "Can't have you dying on me, not when we're practically best friends."

"Ah, Ari," Eames chided, "best friends? You never call, you never write…"

Ari laughed. "Now you sound like my mother."

Eames had told him about her, and how she'd passed him the message. Eames had hoped she would phone since he'd given her an actual number, but Arthur was a bit more suspicious. At least, he had been. Ariadne in person was… well, she was sweet.

"Are you two ready for your dream? Everything's set up and waiting for you. Would you like some water or a snack first?"

"Nah," Eames said, smiling his fake smile at Arthur, "I think we're more than ready."

Arthur nodded, taking off his jacket and rolling his sleeves. They might as well get this over with. He laid his notebook beside his chair and took careful note of the way the IV lines fit neatly into the wall, the PASIV machine not visible. He'd been hoping for a glance but should have known better.

"Alright," Ari chirped, "we will get you hooked up and then you're on your own." Then she gave Eames an exaggerated wink, and Arthur wanted to laugh but didn't dare.

She inserted IV's like she'd been doing it for years, then left quietly. Eames breathed out, still looking a little apprehensive and Arthur regretted his anger. Everyone had secrets. Just because they were sleeping and working together didn't mean Eames was required to share them all.

"Hey," he offered, and Eames turned to look at him. _It's going to be okay_, was what he wanted to say_._ Or maybe even, _I'm sorry._ Instead, he settled for, "If you figure it out first, I'll buy you a drink."

Eames raised his eyebrows, a hopeful look in his eyes, but as he opened his mouth to respond, Arthur could feel the world grow black and his eyes slipped closed.

When he opened them, his head felt heavy at first, like everything was slower. _Dreamlike_, his brain supplied. He shook his head to clear it. He was dressed in what could only be described as some kind of futuristic tactical gear, a small mask around his eyes. At least it wasn't skin-tight spandex. He could feel Eames' presence slightly behind him, and he took in the scene, eyes scanning for as much detail as he could pull in as fast as he could.

"Ah, no, Arthur," Eames complained from somewhere over his left shoulder. "The city? We spent how much money for a dream in the city?"

He wasn't wrong. The street corner they were on could have been one of hundreds. Random passersby milled without making eye contact, and Arthur could even smell a hotdog seller up the street.

"Oh, perfect," Eames grumbled. "There's a bank robbery going on too. We might as well be at bloody work."

"Standard 'Save the Day Adventure Package', Eames," Arthur said, turning to look at him. "Keep in mind the people— what the hell?!"

He took an involuntary step back from his partner and lover in surprise. He was wearing the same outfit as Arthur, but he looked shorter and slimmer, for one thing, and his hair was a brilliant red. His eyes were startlingly yellow, and his face was a slightly different shape too, but it was hard to tell. Because Eames' skin, wherever it showed, was a dark, somewhat scaly blue.

"Jesus, you scared me," Arthur said. "You're blue. Did you pick ice powers too?"

Eames gave him a wistful smile and scratched his jawline like he was apprehensive. His teeth, Arthur noticed with relief, were the same. "No, I didn't pick ice powers," he said.

Arthur frowned, waiting, but Eames didn't say anything else. "Okay, so… what did you pick?"

Eames sighed and lifted his hands helplessly. "I didn't pick anything, Arthur. I didn't pick anything."

* * *

"Arthur," Eames called from somewhere behind him, jogging to catch up. Arthur ignored him, still re-cinching his tie.

"Arthur, stop. Or at least hold up. Give us a chance to explain, darling."

Arthur ripped the car door open and glared at Eames over the roof. For some reason, the endearment was making his eyes burn and his throat ache, and he wanted to throw Eames out a window. "Don't," he tried, and then unclenched his jaw. "Don't call me that."

Eames' face fell, and Arthur couldn't bring himself to feel sorry. He climbed into the car, buckling his seatbelt and putting it into gear without waiting for Eames to be ready. He didn't even care if he was all the way in the car, he just needed to get out of there.

The ride back to the station was dead silent, and Arthur was grateful. He couldn't talk to Eames right now. He couldn't separate out the work from the personal, the hurt from the betrayal, the insult from the injury, and if he opened his mouth, it was all going to come tumbling out, tangled together in one emotional mess. Clearly, he needed to get a better handle on this before he tried to discuss it like a rational person.

He was a professional. Eames was a professional. He'd told himself sleeping together wasn't going to affect their working relationship— he wasn't going to let it. And so far, it had been fairly easy to make that true, even if Eames had a habit of wearing short sleeved shirts and lacing his fingers behind his head when he thought, leaning back distractingly far and showing off arms which made Arthur sit up and pant. It was just _physical_. Resolving their sexual tension head-on made the most sense if they were going to be a good team. He wanted to say it was nothing personal, it was just logical but, well, what the hell was this response then?

Apparently, it was the kind of response where something between his rib cage and his stomach ached with all the things Arthur wanted to say, some of them loud and screaming and some of them soft and broken. And none of them logical. All of them were screaming about being _lied_ to, for _months_, all without the intention of ever coming clean, probably not even if questioned directly.

When they got back to the station, Eames tried again to get his attention, but he shut and locked the car with Eames inside and headed to his desk. When Eames finally joined him, wrinkled and withdrawn, Arthur ignored him. He buried himself in reports and research and tried not to react every time Eames moved. If he put his arms behind his head, Arthur thought he might shoot him.

But he didn't, and Arthur actually managed to focus on his job. Sort of, anyway.

"Arthur?"

Arthur flipped some paper over and pulled out a different one an effort to look busy.

"Look, maybe you don't want to hear it, but I feel like I should get a chance to explain why I chose not to tell you in the first place."

Arthur glanced at him without meaning too, scowling and unwilling to name why he was so angry. "What could you possibly need to explain, Eames?" he spit out, even though he didn't want to talk about it all. He crossed his arms and glared.

"Arthur—"

"No, seriously, Eames. It doesn't seem like that big of a deal to me. Why in the everloving _fuck_ would you need to tell your partner you were a god damned," he lowered his voice, "a god damned _mutant_?"

Eames flinched at the word but didn't look away.

"Why would you even think that was fucking _relevant?"_ Arthur hissed, aware they were in a shared space, aware Eames was supposed to only his partner when they were here. Nothing more anywhere, actually. He didn't, in fact, owe Arthur anything, including the explanation he so desperately wanted to give him, and Arthur hated it.

Eames looked at him, closed off and serious. But not blue. He stared at him out of gray eyes Arthur had looked into a hundred times and thought he'd been able to read.

"Look, I don't tell anyone, okay? It's not personal, it's because this is work and it only gets in the way," he said tightly. "And I don't identify as a mutant— not in any way that matters. It's not really part of who I am. But even if it were personal," he said, even quieter, "I still wouldn't have told you because I was worried you'd react exactly as you are."

Arthur froze like he'd been slapped. "_What?!_ That's what you think?" He looked again at Eames' face now that he knew it was a facade. Eames had chosen to appear this way, designed specifically to hide his true self, and yet Arthur still felt like he knew him. The Eames in front of him, the one he could read even when Eames didn't want him to, looked lined, weary, and miserable. "You," he glanced around, realizing his voice had risen, "you think I'm pissed off because you're a _mutant_?" He glared at Eames, open-mouthed.

Eames blinked. "Isn't, uh, isn't that what we're talking about?"

"Jesus Christ, Eames. You are such an asshole." Arthur scrubbed his face, his eyes tired, his back tired, his jaw sore from gritting his teeth. Eames still looked apprehensive. "No," Arthur stated, firmly. "That's not what I'm pissed about. I'm pissed you didn't _tell me_ you were— heyyyy, Jim."

"Hey, you two! Working hard or hardly working?" The portly cop sauntered up to their desk, his thumbs tucked into his gun belt like he was ready to settle in for a good long chat.

Eames slipped a smile on so fast it made Arthur's head spin. "Heh, yeah. Got a lot to do on this one, actually. But hey, have a great rest of the week, yeah?"

"Oh, uh, sure! You too! Talk to you later, yeah?"

"'Course!" Eames chirped. Then he turned back to make eye contact with Arthur until Jim was gone. The break gave Arthur a chance to calm down, reel in the string of words which had threatened to unravel everything, and try again.

"Look. Setting aside everything… else. Just tell me as a cop. As my partner. Would you ever have told me?"

Eames' lips thinned and he looked at the floor. "No."

"Never, not for _any_ reason? Not even if it would have helped solve a case? Or save a life?"

Eames looked regretful but shook his head, and Arthur stood, his chair scraping the floor. His hand on his jacket, he asked one more question. "Just… how would you feel if this was reversed? If you found out I had been lying to _you _this whole time?"

Eames met his eyes and looked at him helplessly. "I…"

Arthur scoffed. "I can't do this right now. I'll see you tomorrow. I expect your report on my desk by 8:00."


	3. Chapter 3

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Eames paced his small flat, Somnacin brochure forgotten in his hand, and tried to figure out how completely fucked his life was now.

Arthur had been so… disappointed. Angry, yes, and Eames had assumed that would happen because angry was Arthur's default setting. But the disappointment that underlied it was the most painful thing that had happened to Eames in a long time.

His father had been disappointed in him too, at first. But if that had been the only thing his father had felt toward him, Eames probably wouldn't have turned into a juvenile delinquent, stealing everything that wasn't nailed down just to feed himself and his sister. He wouldn't have been put in that group home, probably wouldn't even have become a cop. He wouldn't have met Arthur. He supposed there was an argument there about using that line of thought to learn to be grateful or some crap, but it would take a lot more time in therapy than he currently had left on this Earth for Eames to feel gratitude for his father.

But he was grateful for Arthur.

Eames dragged a hand through his hair and with a sigh, sat down at his typewriter. A perfectly spelled report wasn't going to win Arthur's heart, but it certainly wouldn't hurt.

He typed up his observations in the dream, the physics and tests Arthur had asked him to perform. He wrote about how the landscape went in a circle, and how the bystanders, when he'd tried to question them, had only looked at him blankly or with open hostility before shouldering past him.

He dutifully corrected spelling errors and even proof-read it, but it looked woefully insufficient. Still, he unrolled it and put it in his briefcase. That's when he saw the files from Arthur. It was the research on the anti-Mutant Registration Act organizations, each precisely labeled in Arthur's tight handwriting, and a smaller folder about Fischer-Morrow.

Eames flipped through it glumly, jotting a note here or there so he'd be able to speak about them if Arthur asked. The Fischer-Morrow intel was dry and boring, and Eames was debating grabbing a well-earned drink as he finished skimming through it, when the picture of Robert Fischer, son and heir of the company, fell out of the file.

"Oh, fuck me," he breathed at the photo, and his hand shook as he dialed Arthur's number.

* * *

"I'm telling you, Arthur, it was him," Eames said, one hand on the back of Arthur's leather desk chair. He leaned over his shoulder to see the telly screen.

"I understand that," Arthur said, too calmly, "but Robert Fischer could not have been in our dream. All logical reasons aside why the son of a multi-millionaire wouldn't be sharing a standard adventure pack in a public dream den, look."

He loaded a video cassette into the player, fast forwarded to a specific time stamp, and paused it. There, on screen, was Robert Fischer, in the Rose Garden, attending one of the President's speeches about the MRA, and looking extremely unhappy about it. "This was filmed today. Right here is when we were being prepped for the IV's, and here," he said, fast-forwarding again, "is when we were waking up after saving the day." The shot was of the back of Robert's head, but still visibly him. Eames deflated.

"And right here," Arthur said, backing up a bit to a frame which showed the president's emphatic face "is where you were being outed as a mutant and a liar."

Eames let his head drop and he groaned. "Arthur, please."

Arthur spun in his chair and crossed his arms, his well-equipped home office feeling smaller every second. "Please what?"

"Please, will you just let me explain?"

There was a long stretch of silence where Arthur appeared to actually be debating, until he finally allowed, "Alright."

Eames licked his lips and ran a hand over his jaw. Then he grabbed the chair in the corner. "I never meant for this to hurt you, and I'm sorry it did."

Arthur snorted but didn't say anything.

"I said before that I didn't tell anyone because of work. But that's not the whole truth now, is it. Even if the MRA wasn't happening," Eames said, looking ruefully at the paused speech, "and even if I could be 100% positive there'd be no repercussions…"

Eames let his head drop and took a deep, frustrated breath. This was not his idea of a fun time. "Okay. So, my mum died when I was born. My father had two kids to take care of, and who apparently carried the mutant gene. According to him, we were an abomination and a disgrace, and if we ever showed anyone what our whore of a mother had actually been, he would do a list of things which got progressively worse depending on what we'd done wrong at that moment."

Arthur's face was hard and flat when Eames checked to see, but he hadn't moved, and his lips were pinched in anger. Eames looked away and pushed on.

"We learned to control it faster than most, and we got out of the house as soon as we could. Raven, that's my sister, she was so little, and she hated that she couldn't shift. When we were on our own, she would change all the time, something different every day." Eames rolled his shoulders, hit suddenly with a barrage of memories. Raven sitting by a campfire eating out of a can. The both of them huddled under a blanket. Getting into a fight at a shelter. Keeping her safe. Until the day she refused to let him. "I tried to stop her, to keep her safe, and... Well, we don't talk anymore. Last time we did, she called me a coward for the way I live my life, and hell," he sighed, "she might be right. But if I could cut it out of me, I would."

"Don't…" Arthur croaked, and Eames looked at him. His face was still tight, and he uncrossed his arms. "Don't say that."

Eames rolled his eyes but sat back and waited for Arthur's verdict.

He looked uncomfortable but looked at Eames took a breath. "Okay, first of all, just to get it out of the way, I think the MRA is shitty. I mean, I _get _it, people are stupid and scared of anything they don't understand, but I don't _agree _with it."

He looked at Eames expectantly and Eames had no idea what he was supposed to say to that. "Oh...kay."

"And secondly," he continued, as if he wanted to say it before he could change his mind, "I don't hate that you're a mutant. I just hate that you didn't tell me." He frowned. "I kind of have an… honesty thing."

Eames couldn't stop the tiny grin at that. "Arthur, you work with criminals for a living."

"I know!" he said, throwing his arms up. "But they're _supposed_ to lie to me! I expect it!"

Eames chuckled. "Okay."

"I think… it's actually pretty amazing," Arthur said. "That you can do that. I can't do anything like that."

Arthur's shoulders had relaxed, and for the first time, Eames took in his stockinged feet, propped on the base of his office chair, his tie and belt gone, the top three buttons of his shirt undone. He had to fix this.

"Arthur, I'm truly sorry that I hurt you."

Arthur stared at his rug. "Yeah, I know you are."

Eames felt a flare of hope. "Think you can see your way to forgiving me?"

Arthur scowled and rolled his eyes. "Ah, fuck, Eames," he mumbled. "I already have."

Eames grinned at his adorable ears, turning pink under the scrutiny, and the hunch of his shoulders which said he was too embarrassed to ask forgiveness himself.

"Darling," he said, and Arthur ducked his head.

"Shut up," he grumbled under his breath, and Eames just grinned wider. "So, if it wasn't actual Fischer in the dream, how did you see him?"

Eames kept his smile but let Arthur change the subject. "Well, let's see. We can assume we weren't alone in the dream, and the dreamer populates it with their subconscious. So the other people in the dream might have been thinking about him, or we might have and didn't realize it."

"Might? We're going to have to do a little better than might."

"Ah, there's my Arthur. How I adore your condescension."

Arthur shifted, looking away and not responding to the jab. "What if…"

Eames tipped his head and waited. But Arthur just shook his head. "Might as well now, pet. Tell us your idea."

Arthur assessed him before he said, "What if that," he said, nodding to the paused screen, "wasn't Robert Fischer? What if it just looked like him?"

Eames felt a bucket of ice dump into his stomach as he blinked at the screen. "I…"

Arthur grimaced and looked, for the first time tonight, as if he wanted to apologize for something he'd said.

"Shit," Eames breathed, elbows on his knees. "I need to make a call."


	4. Chapter 4

The sanctity of a lazy Saturday afternoon should be legally protected. Especially if it's early autumn, where the sunlight is warm and the breeze is cool, and you've just gotten a new book, a decent one, but not one so good you want to ignore the way your whole body starts to grow heavy in your chair.

The punishment for interrupting such an afternoon should be severe. However, the punishment for interrupting such an afternoon where Charles had finally fallen into a fitful, alcohol-induced doze, should be violent and vicious.

Hank pulled himself from the window seat where he'd been thinking about dozing himself and pictured all the people he hoped were on the other side of the door. So he could remove their arms from their torso.

"Good afternoon," said a plain-clothes cop in a lazy British accent.

He didn't flash a badge, and the other cop in the expensive suit scowled up from the step below him, but their haircuts gave them away. Hank didn't move from where he was blocking the entrance.

"Is there something I can help you with, officers?"

If they were surprised at being recognized as such, they didn't show it. The broad, British one smiled. "We're here to see Professor Xavier, please."

"There's no Professor here."

"Can you tell us a time when we might be able to reach him?"

"No," Hank said, more sedately than he felt. He had patience they were welcome to test, but he couldn't be blamed if the serum he'd created to control his more beastly urges wore off. After all, he only took enough to keep him a normal color. A part of him wanted them to try it.

The skinny one frowned at his answer and reached in his jacket. "I'm Detective Condon and this is Detective Eames," he said in an American accent and handed Hank a card which he did not look at. "It's a matter of some urgency."

"Which is nice for you, but as I said," Hank said, "there is no. Professor. Here."

The one named Eames continued anyway. "The Professor and I have a… mutual acquaintance, and I just need to ask him a few questions."

Hank was unmoved.

"We need him to find this person. Before they do something bad."

Hank couldn't stop the growl that burned up his throat. "Erik."

The detective shook his head. "No. Raven."

"I believe she prefers Mystique, now," came Charles' bitter voice from behind him. Hank turned to see Charles, still wearing his dressing gown, coming toward them, fresh drink in hand. Which meant the doorbell had woken him. Hank ground his teeth together.

The detective shook his head again, this time sadly. "Old habits die hard, I guess."

Hank looked at Charles, whose face was flat, steady, and a mask. Not for the first time, he wished he could read Charles' mind.

"And what would you know about it?" Charles said. "Who are you? What do you want?"

Hank handed him their card and stood aside because Charles could fight his own battles. But he had a feeling he knew where this was headed. And he already didn't like it. He crossed his arms and tried to look bigger than he was. Well, bigger than he currently was.

"We are working on a case," Detective Eames said, "and Raven's powers came up. We were wondering if you know where she is."

Instead of giving them the answer Hank already knew, which was no, Charles squinted at the two detectives and took a pull of the drink in his hand. "What kind of case?"

The skinny one, Condon, started to say, "That's not important," but Detective Eames pulled the manila file folder out of his hands and passed it to Charles.

Charles accepted it with a raised eyebrow and Condon scowled.

"Eames, you cannot give classified _police_ files to civilian—" he muttered.

"I'm sure it's fine, darling," Detective Eames breezed. "Raven trusted the Professor. We can trust him too."

He said this last part like a challenge, and Charles looked up from where he'd opened the folder.

"And how do you know Raven?" Charles asked as if he couldn't care less.

Detective Eames steadied himself and then looked him in the eye. "I'm her brother."

Hank felt his own stomach drop, and he looked at Charles, unable to even imagine the effect those words would have on him.

Charles swayed a little on his feet, but at this point, Hank wasn't sure if that was due to the gut punch he'd just been dealt or the alcohol he'd been drinking since dawn.

With a voice like shattered glass, Charles took an unsteady breath and gritted out, "Prove it."

With a sigh and a grimace, Detective Eames' skin shifted, and Hank found himself staring at two Charles Xaviers, one in a dressing gown and one in a suit.

There was a tense moment where everyone there stared at the detective, and Hank held his breath. Then, Charles turned on his heel and left.

Detective Eames shifted back, and Hank listened to Charles' footsteps echo as he escaped into the depths of the house.

With a frown, he widened the door. "Would you gentlemen like to come in?"

Detective Eames smiled tightly. "Don't mind if we do."

Hank led them to a sitting room and offered them a beverage, but both men declined.

"The Professor is not like I pictured him," Detective Eames said as he sat on the couch.

Hank snorted and stood beside the bookshelf, wishing he could disappear behind it. "Yes, well," he said, eyeballing Detective Condon, who was scanning the room like he was looking for clues. "I told you. There's no Professor here."

"So why are you here?" Detective Eames asked, his ice-grey eyes changing from mildly interested to hyper-intent.

Hank froze, his face heating before he could stop it. "I…"

The two men waited, watching him carefully.

"I… make his serum," he said. "It helps him to walk."

Detective Condon cocked his head, interested. "Why does he need help walking?"

But Hank was saved from answering by a disheveled Charles appearing in the doorway. His glass had been refilled, but he was frowning at the police file open in his hand.

"You're not investigating Raven."

It wasn't a question and no one answered it.

"If she's not part of this case, why do you need to find her?" Charles asked.

Detective Condon squared his shoulders. "She's a person of interest in an ongoing—"

"Arthur. Please." Eames turned to Charles. "_I'm_ looking for her. I had a hunch she might be involved in something bigger than she realizes, and I just want to make sure she's safe. Do you know where she is?"

Charles carefully shook his head, guilt etched in every line of his suddenly sober-looking face.

"Charles," Hank said softly, "is Cerebro out of the question?" Maybe if he hadn't taken too much of the serum, he'd be able to...

Charles just looked at him flatly and then closed his eyes, defeated.

"What's Cerebro?" Arthur asked.

"It doesn't matter," Charles bit out. "I can't find her for you."

Eames' lips twisted bitterly and he looked away.

"But…"

Charles trailed off, looking thoughtfully at the file, and Hank's heart sped up. He knew that look. That look was dangerous, and exhilarating, and had been absent from Charles' face for far too long. But still, Hank's initial reaction was no, please no. We're safe here. Stop tearing yourself apart for other people.

"But maybe we can help you with this."

He looked to Hank, asking with his eyes for things Hank didn't want to give but knew he would anyway. And Charles knew it too. It didn't take a telepath to know that Hank would do whatever Charles asked of him, no matter the cost.

With a low-timbre grunt, Hank gave a slight nod. He'd help. Anything. And he'd do his damnedest to keep Charles safe while he was at it.

Detective Condon looked like he'd rather chew his own foot off.

"I don't think that'll be—"

"I have some experience with mindscapes and controlling them," Charles continued, not looking up from the file he'd buried himself in. "I'll need a sample of this... compound used in the dreams, and I might also need to set up a dream den session, but I'll know more once Hank can take a look at the chemical makeup."

Their attention swiveled to Hank, but he just watched Charles.

He smiled and looked up. "But I think I can answer some of your questions."

Condon glowered. "We don't have any—"

"Exactly," Charles said, snapping the report shut and offering it back. "You don't even have any questions yet. But by the time you figure out what you need to know, I'll have answers."

Hank hid a smile behind a nose scratch and felt his heart lift at Charles' tone. Suave. Confident. Like his old self.

Condon took the folder and Eames rose from his sprawl on the couch to peer at Charles.

"It might be a tick before we can get it to you," he said, but looking like he meant something deeper.

"That's alright," Charles said, sugary sweet, hands in his pockets. "I'm on your timeline, gentlemen. Whatever I can do to help the police, please, drop by anytime."

Eames raised an eyebrow and stepped around him, heading for the door, and Condon followed.

"Detective Condon," Hank called, taking a step toward him.

The detective paused, eyebrows still drawn, and looked back at Hank.

"I'll need as much of the compound as you can get me if I'm going to analyze it. I also need it to be sterile, if possible, but even a few drops scraped from your skin is better than nothing."

His eyes searched Hank's face before he nodded stiffly, and said, "You might as well call me Arthur. Apparently, we're going to see each other again."

* * *

Charles dropped onto the vacated couch as soon as the front door closed behind them. He didn't verbalize his exhaustion, but it didn't take mutant abilities to read into him staring into his empty glass.

Hank didn't say anything, just letting him exist for a few moments. That beautiful brain worked better with as much peace as possible, although Hank was only able to create so much of that in a lab.

"We have to find her," Charles said, defeated. "Before anyone else does. If the police are looking for her-"

"They aren't, though," Hank insisted. "You said so yourself. She's not part of the file, she's not part of the investigation. She's safe."

"For how long?" Charles snapped at him. "We need to figure out how she's involved in this dream thing, and keep them," he said, stabbing a finger at the front door, "as far away from her as possible."

Hank raised his hands in surrender. "Alright," he said. "Alright. Fine."

Charles swayed there, hair hanging in his face, before he nodded and straightened. When he left to go to his rooms, he left the glass behind.

* * *

He could hear him moaning long before he finally broke down the door to Charles' rooms.

"Charles!" Hank called, gathering him in his arms. "Charles, it's okay."

"Make them stop, make them stop," he groaned, as he had been for the last half hour. "I can hear everything. God, make it stop!"

His hands clutched at his head, not his ears, and clumps of hair littered the sweat-soaked sheets where he'd pulled them out.

"Here, here," Hank said, as he half rocked, half maneuvered Charles on the bed. "I brought you a dose."

He groaned, shaking his head without knowing what he wanted, and gritted out, "Can't!"

"Shhh, shh," Hank said, petting him, "it's a low dose; you shouldn't have gone cold turkey. I shouldn't have let you. It's too much, and it doesn't have to be this way."

"But—"

"We will have you off if it completely by the time they come back with the sample. I promise."

Charles was bow tight in his arms, eyes unseeing and panicked, and Hank wasn't above bringing the syringe into his sight line. Sweat dotted his face and his shirt stuck to him, and he finally nodded, eyes glued to the needle in his hand.

"Good." Hank administered the serum, cut to 50 percent, although he would have liked it to be stronger, but it did no good to lie to a telepath. Especially one at full power.

"Come on, Charles," Hank said, lifting him and feeling the Beast stir. He paused at the edge of the bed, controlling his breathing, calming his heart rate. Then he lifted him again. "Let's get you something else to focus on while that takes effect."

Hank carried him to the bathroom and sat him directly into the old, clawfoot tub, pajamas and all. He'd taken off his dressing gown at least, but Hank looked at Charles, legs lifeless and head still held in both hands, and started running water. He tested it, bringing it to the perfect temperature, while Charles let out the occasional whine, but at least he'd stopped pulling his own hair.

The water swirled around Charles' thighs, and Hank urged him to straighten long enough for him to remove his shirt. Hank purposefully averted his eyes, focusing on the task and not Charles' body, and folded the shirt as the tub filled.

He entertained a thought of offering to wash Charles' hair and searched awkwardly for some kind of pitcher to rinse it, keeping an eye on the listless man with his hands floating in the water. There was nothing in the bathroom, but there was in the kitchen, he knew. And that was okay. Sometimes Hank welcomed a break from being around Charles. The way he felt at any given moment, he was afraid he'd buckle under the weight of it.

"Charles?"

For a moment, Hank thought he hadn't heard him even though the only sound in the room was the desolate drip of the tap. Then, as if his head was weighted down, he looked up, his eyes brimming with unshed tears.

"I'm going to go get a pitcher, okay?"

"No," he croaked, raising an arm out of the water. "Please…"

Hank couldn't get to his side fast enough. "What? What do you need?"

Charles squeezed his eyes shut and the tears spilled free. "Make them go away," he whispered, hands quivering to his temples. "Please. All I can hear is pain."

Hank let out a shaky breath and sank to his knees on the cold tile. With tightened lips, he pulled Charles' hands away from his head and rested them on the sides of the tub.

"Then hear me, Charles," Hank said. "Listen to me."

With fingers that felt surer then he did, Hank pressed on Charles' shoulders until he lay back against the porcelain, the warm water surrounding him. Then he scooped handfuls onto his tangled curls, brushing the thoughts and tension from his scalp as he went.

Charles knew. Of course he did. But he was too much of a gentleman to ever bring it up. And there were only so many dirty thoughts Hank could be caught having before it stopped being embarrassing and started being something he just tried to get over as quickly as possible. But so far it hadn't happened, and Charles knew that too.

Hank knew Charles cared about him. He also trusted him, relied on him, and needed him. And for Hank, for now, it was enough. He tried not to want more, and he tried not to be too loud about his feelings because Charles was a good man, and you can't pick who you love.

Charles let out a long sigh and Hank felt him relax. The water lapped just below his pebbled nipples as he lay back, and Hank looked away. He shifted until he knelt directly behind him and focused on the scalp underneath his hair.

Even though he'd told Charles to listen to him, he actually tried not to think of anything specific. He ran through a list of things he'd planned on doing that day, a tricky sequence in the serum he'd been trying to improve, a few snatches from a song which had been rolling in the background of his mind since he woke up that morning. And then, without warning, a memory of a time they'd heard that song together. They'd been in the library, working on some dusty task, listening to the radio and chatting. Hank had said something, and Charles had laughed, warm and honest, and Hank had stopped what he was doing at the sight. Charles, caught in a beam of sunlight with dust particles dancing in the air, had thrown his head back, mouth open and eyes crinkled, and laughed. Hank thought he'd need a bigger ribcage to hold his heart.

Hank froze, his fingers buried in Charles hair, his face warming. "I'm… I'm sorry."

Charles had stopped frowning and his eyes were open. He didn't look upset, and when he said, "It's quite alright," his voice sounded like himself again.

Hank was glad he couldn't see him as he cursed himself an idiot and tried to think about nothing again. Charles huffed a laugh and closed his eyes again, and Hank realized how dumb he was being. But Charles wasn't angry, and he wasn't in pain, and so Hank, slowly, switched from massaging his temples to grabbing the shampoo bottle.

"I didn't realize you saw me that way," Charles said.

Hank squirted too much into his palm as he froze again. "Uh. What way?"

Charles waited until he'd put the bottle back to say, "Beautiful."

Hank wanted to die a little, but he knew what Charles would say to that, so he pushed the thought from his mind, face flaming, and washed Charles' damn hair.

It wasn't as though he could deny it, so he just shrugged. "I get plenty mad at you too, though. You may recall yesterday when I was yelling at you about what was and was not the maid's job?"

It probably wasn't as effective as it could have been, since Hank was currently also thinking about Charles being brilliant and amazing, and an excellent and caring teacher, and Charles was smiling and leaning into his fingers.

"I remember," he said simply. "But you're not mad now, are you?"

Hank looked down at him, tilting his chin up, the long line down his neck and torso disappearing under the water and his translucent cotton pants.

"No," he said. "No, I'm not."

Hank drew the overly sudsy locks through his fingers, relishing the feel of them, then put his hands on Charles' shoulders.

"Scoot down for me."

Charles raised his knees and sank into the water, his eyes still closed, letting Hank rinse the soap from his hair and detangle it with his fingers. When he'd washed it clean and watched it float in the water, Hank's traitorous hands found Charles' shoulders again. A soft slide of thumbs over skin told him that while his face was calm, the voices in his head had left their mark on his body. Hank focused on the knots of muscles under the water, digging in when Charles held his breath and moving on when he let out a sigh. He stroked the skin up and down his back, as far as he could reach, massaging until it was all sighs and tiny groans, and Hank would need a few minutes before he was fit to stand up in polite company.

With a feeling like wistful regret, he squeezed Charles' shoulders one last time, a goodbye to this stolen moment of loud feelings and touching Charles' body.

"Hank."

Hank froze. But Charles, his blue eyes clear once again, took his hand from where he'd placed it on the side of the tub, and grabbed Hank's wrist.

His fingers were slim and cool against Hank's overheated skin, and even though he felt like he was strung so tight he could snap, when Charles tugged his hand from his shoulder and down to rest against his chest, he went easily.

"Don't stop."

Hank looked into those hooded blue eyes and swallowed. And then, because he couldn't help himself, he dragged his gaze over the body spread out before him. The water was gray and clouded thanks to the shampoo washed from his hair, but it didn't hide the way Charles' cock was half hard in his pants.

Oh, God.

Hank's own cock throbbed in response, and he immediately felt guilty. Maybe Charles was doing this because he knew how badly Hank wanted it. Or maybe he wanted to pretend he was someone else. Or maybe he was still so messed up from being able to hear everything in the world that he didn't really know what he was—

As all of these thoughts tumbled through Hank's mind, one after the other like rifle shots, Charles stiffened and jerked to sit up.

"No!" Hank burst out, tightening his grip on his chest. "No, wait, please," he said, water sloshing angrily as Charles stilled. "I didn't mean it."

Charles sat back down, but his eyes were wary, and Hank pushed everything else he was thinking at him. The images, the anxiety, the _want._ The absolutely selfish want that churned in his gut and was horrified he might have messed this up. Charles blinked, but he relaxed, and his fingers found Hank's wrist again.

"Hank," he said again, more gently this time, "don't stop? Unless you want to."

Hank licked his lips and nodded because he couldn't get the words out, but every fiber of his being was on board for this. He said a quick prayer of thanks to a god he didn't believe in and settled both hands on the chest of a man he did believe in. He was grateful, and greedy, and it didn't matter why Charles wanted this, only that he wanted it from him.

The hair on Charles' chest was sparse, but the trail which started above his belly button was enticing. But Hank made himself go slow, enjoy the moment, focus his thoughts and make this _amazing_ for Charles.

At that, Charles hummed quietly and turned his head to press his nose into Hank's arm. His fingers still circled his wrist, just as Charles had probably seen in Hank's vision of this, and he breathed out, relaxing and letting Hank take control.

He started with the collarbones, which had peeked out of open shirt collars and distracted him via tank tops, swiping his thumbs over them and touching, all the places he'd seen, all the places he'd wanted to see. Chest, nipples, ribs, reveling in every shaky intake of breath and clench of muscles. By the time he let himself skate fingertips over that trail of hair, Charles' fingers had gotten a little bit tighter, and so had his pants.

Hank's sleeve got wet as he dipped his fingers below the elastic waistband, but he took his time. He explored hip bones and velvety soft skin right next to wiry curls and the tops of thighs. Charles' eyes were shut again, his lips parted, but he tugged Hank's hand unsubtly toward where he wanted it.

Hank bit back a grin and let his fingers circle the base of Charles' girth, and Charles opened his eyes to look too. He shifted his weight, causing the water to slosh, so he could ease the pajama bottoms down to the tops of his thighs for a better view. They both watched as Hank drew his hand up the rigid length, tightening his grip as he went, and the sight was better than he'd imagined. Charles kept his hand firmly clasped around Hank's wrist, but Hank wasn't going anywhere.

He twisted his hand, focusing on the head, and Charles' hips jerked. He swore softly, and Hank heard the sound of his head hitting the tub, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from what was going on below the water. He stroked slowly, then faster, loosely, then tighter, finding the perfect combination to make Charles breathe through his mouth, curl his toes, let go of his wrist to grasp his shirt.

When his hips were rocking, and his little "Ah, ah"'s were getting higher and higher, Hank stopped completely. Charles froze, wet fingers clenched, and Hank grinned impishly. He reached down to roll his balls in his hand, tugging on the warm skin, and Charles _groaned_, eyes rolling back in his head. Hank dragged his fingers through the short hairs at the base of his cock, teasing, focusing on what he was looking at, and when Charles wasn't paying attention, moved his other hand to Charles' left nipple.

"Ah!" Charles gasped, the sound of genuine surprise almost as good as the way his cock leaped. Hank allowed himself to feel a little smug as he pinched it to a peak. He grasped Charles firmly in his right hand and began to tug both at the same time.

Charles' second hand twisted in the shirt at Hank's shoulder. He groaned curses and his hips came out of the water, arching into Hank's fist. Hank sped up, gripping, pulling, _aching_, and thought, "Come on, Charles. Give it to me. I want to see it."

With a strangled cry, Charles came, chasing his pleasure and Hank stroked him through it. He gentled him through the aftershocks, a strange buzzing under his skin, his mouth dry and his jeans unbearably uncomfortable. Charles' sweaty panting finally slowed and he let his arms drop from where he'd been clutching Hank, and Hank pressed a harsh, dry kiss to the damp hair at Charles' temple. Then, with a firm image in his mind of mopping up the water on the floor with the towels, he left without a word.

He walked down the hall to his room, past Charles' splintered door, and locked his own door behind him. Then the Beast, whom he'd been holding back for far too long, took over, and Hank buckled under the weight of his feelings as a howl ripped through the night.


	5. Chapter 5

"Hank!"

Hank pretended he couldn't hear him and walked faster.

"Slow down, you bastard," Charles yelled, and Hank gritted his teeth and stopped.

When Charles, who was leaning heavily on a cane, caught up to him, he was breathing heavy and looking genuinely angry.

"We need to talk about this," he hissed, blue eyes flashing.

"And as I already said, 'No, thank you.' I'm busy doing what you _asked_ me to do, if you remember, and—"

"That's what we need to talk about."

Hank stopped, confused, because he thought this had been about the bathtub incident, which was how he was referring to it now in his head.

"That night," Charles started, and Hank let out what sounded suspiciously like an annoyed growl.

"That night changes nothing," Hank snapped. "It wasn't a big deal to me, and I know it wasn't a big deal to you, so I wish you'd stop making it into one."

"HANK."

Hank let his frustrated sigh out through his nose and crossed his arms for good measure. Just because he hadn't weaned Charles off the serum completely yet was no reason for him not to be _completely aware _of how Hank felt about this conversation.

Charles straightened his shoulders and put his weight on his cane. "I know you don't want to talk about it, but that night was—"

"A mistake."

Charles blinked at him and Hank wanted to _shake_ him, spinal injury or no.

"I know you think it was a mistake, Charles. And that's fine. You can feel as guilty as you want for taking advantage of 'poor old Hank', who is too stupid to know what he wants and can be coerced into sexual situations against his will; knock yourself out. But you'll excuse me if I don't jump on board."

It was Charles' turn to sigh and he turned to take an unsteady step toward the bench against the wall. And angry as he was, Hank still put a hand on his elbow to get him there.

When he was settled, Charles patted the spot next to him and Hank sat, two vials clinking in his lab coat pocket.

"You care for me," Charles stated, like the baboon's ass that he was. "And stop that," Charles snapped. "The serum isn't working quite that well, so you can keep your comparisons civil."

Hank tightened his lips and stared at the wall across from them.

"I care for you too," Charles said, but Hank knew better than to hang his heart on that. "It's hard not to, knowing how you see me. And I pushed open a door last night that we have kept closed all this time, for very good reasons."

Hank looked at the other man—his friend, his mentor, and until recently, someone he'd loved from afar. "Charles, I already told you. It doesn't change anything."

"Of course it does."

"Do you know how many times I've done that in my head already?" Hank snapped. The rush of blood to his face wasn't enough to stop the angry rush of words from his mouth. "I have thought about that before, okay? You were not the only one pushing open that door. I understand exactly what is going on here; I don't need you to explain it to me. I don't care if we shut it again because it changes _nothing _for me. I can't help how I feel, no matter how you react to it. So close it, open it, it doesn't matter to me."

Charles regarded him calmly, and Hank hated how uncalm he felt.

"You matter to me," he told Hank, and Hank leaned on the Beast so he wouldn't buckle. He clenched his fists.

"You did what I wanted because I wanted it, and that's not a sign of a healthy dynamic," Charles said, his voice soft.

Hank scoffed. "If you think you were the only one who wanted that, you didn't see me in my room later."

Charles frowned. "I don't—"

"You're not going to change my mind, and you don't need to protect me from myself," Hank said. "If you want it again, let me know, otherwise I'd prefer not to talk about this again."

"Hank!"

But Hank was already leaving for his lab, uncaring if Charles could get back up on his own or not.

* * *

Arthur and Eames had brought him two samples of the compound, days, no, _weeks_ before he'd actually thought they'd be able to get a hold of any. Two perfectly, hermetically sealed test tubes, hand-delivered by the same bad haircuts and a promise for more if he needed it. He raised an eyebrow but they had "leads to follow up on'' so he'd shoved them in his pocket and gone to search out Charles for what he'd seen in the file about the dreamsharing business at the bottom of all this.

Hank had read what he could find about dream dens, but the Xavier's library was limited and even the public library only had newspaper articles archived. Still, the Somnacin compound was never explained, and the machine used to administer it was never photographed. So Hank had a pretty good idea that what he held in his pocket was close to priceless in the right hands.

Luckily, Hank's were not those hands. He retreated to his lab and his samples and slides, and ignored the world for a few hours.

The light was bleeding from the sky when he finally worked it out, and Hank pushed himself away from his microscope, scrubbing his tired eyes and sighing his hatred of the situation into the silence.

"Damn it," he muttered, and seriously considered dumping the solution down the drain. No one had to know. Charles was still on a 35 percent solution, so Hank could hide his thoughts if he needed to.

Hank sighed as he wrote down his conclusions, knowing he would show Charles his findings and let him make his own decisions. But damn, he hated knowing that Charles would practically kill himself using this information.

Charles was in his study when he tracked him down, but he looked annoyed when Hank entered. Maybe he'd be able to leave his report, and Charles would be too distracted to even look at it.

"Is that about the samples?" Charles asked, focused on the papers in his hand.

"Yes," Hank said, "but about that night…"

Charles gave him a look. "Are you saying you want to talk about it now?"

Hank's chin raised without his say so. "No. And I still don't regret it."

"Fine," Charles said agreeably. "Then hand it over and stop trying to distract me. I can hear you clear as day." He tapped his temple.

Hank frowned and passed the pages into Charles' waiting hand.

"What's in here that you don't want me to know?" he said, reading.

"It's not that I don't want you to know," Hank said, shuffling his feet. "I'd prefer you not do anything with that knowledge which will inevitably put you in danger."

Charles looked up at him, an eyebrow raised. "What does that mean?"

"It means I know you, Charles." Hank said. "It means you're going to turn yourself inside out, _again_, to help someone who isn't even going to thank you when it's all over. You are going to kill yourself one of these days trying to save someone who doesn't deserve it."

Charles was glaring now. "She's my sister, Hank."

"But she isn't!" Hank said before he could stop himself. "She's _his_ sister. And she doesn't want either of your help."

Charles laid the paper on the desk and stared at it, unseeing. When he finally looked up, his eyes were clear and his face calm.

"You might be right and you might not," he said calmly. "But she has my help regardless." He folded his hands on the blotter. "Now. Tell me."

Hank sighed and dropped into the chair across from him. "The compound used for dreaming is a gene derivative. A mutant gene derivative. It wasn't created. It was refined." He looked at Charles, resigned and defeated. "Somewhere out there, a mutant is having their blood, or more likely plasma, or even bone marrow, turned into a recreational drug for the wealthy."

Charles sat back in the chair, eyes widened, and ran a hand over the stubble on his jaw. "Well," he said slowly, "I hope they're getting awfully rich off of it."

Hank gave him a skeptical look. "Someone is. Those dream dens are the fastest growing fad in America right now. And they're expensive."

"See, Eames?" came a voice from behind him. "I told you it pays to follow the money."

Hank turned. "Detectives, I didn't hear you come in."

"Arthur, please," he said, holding out his hand, and Hank rose to shake it. "And the Professor told us to come in."

Hank shook Eames' hand, but he was already raising an eyebrow at Charles. "How far can you reach?"

Charles gave him a look. "I saw them coming up the drive." He gestured out the window. "I can do _some _things without using my powers."

Arthur regarded Charles curiously. "I didn't know you were a mutant," he said. "Until you talked inside my head, of course."

They all three stared at him. "You didn't?" Eames asked him.

Arthur looked a bit annoyed as he frowned at his partner. "No. I didn't. So, not to be rude, but is there a way I'm supposed to know? Do you have some kind of secret code I don't know about?"

Eames looked amused, but it was Charles who said, "There's not a way to know, Detective. We tend to be able to recognize our own, though. Maybe it's just because we're used to hiding it, and we see the weight of that in each other's eyes. But here in this house, you don't have to hide anything." He nodded at Hank. "Unless you want to."

Hank nodded back and appreciated what Charles was trying to tell him. Be who you are. I won't judge. But Hank wanted to be able to meet his own eyes in the mirror and he'd also like to keep from shedding on the furniture. So he would take the serum, and the good detectives and everyone else could assume whatever the hell they wanted.

Except Arthur was looking at him oddly, and Hank felt the need to change the subject. He cleared his throat.

"Okay, I think I'm in this enough to ask," Hank said, standing so the detectives could take a seat. He moved to stand beside Charles. "Why are you looking for Mystique? And what does this dream compound have to do with your case?"

Arthur looked like he'd just chewed on a lemon, and Charles said, "You can trust Hank. And he may be able to help. After all, he did just give you a big break in the case."

Hank crossed his arms and waited.

Arthur leaned back in his chair, which was enough of an allowance that Eames started talking. "It started with blackmail. 'Support the Mutant Rights movement or we will release the content of your dream den sessions to the media.' And this particular mark doesn't support mutant rights. Nor does he, apparently, relish the idea of having his dreams publicised."

"Fun," Hank said. "And you're supposed to, what, find the blackmailer?"

"Yes," Arthur clipped, more than a little defensive. "We're required to stop the lawbreaker. That's our job."

"Hank," Charles said, twisting his chin towards him without actually taking his eyes off the detectives. "Tell these gentlemen what you discovered."

Hank explained the gene derivative, and both men frowned. But he was surprised when it was Eames who finally voiced what he expected to come from All Business Arthur.

"I'm sorry, mate, but I don't think we can investigate that. We need to solve the blackmail case first, and quickly. We've got a lot of eyes on this."

Hank bristled. "But surely you can—"

"That's alright, Hank," Charles interrupted him, his voice calm and steady. He was staring at Arthur intently. "They said they're busy, so they're busy." Arthur shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "We can't ask them to do something simply because it's the right thing to do."

Hank looked at Eames, who was frowning back and forth between Charles and Arthur, before he said, "Look, mate, it's not that we don't want to help—"

Charles raised his hand and Eames stopped speaking at once. If Hank'd had fur, it would have stood straight up at the command in just that simple gesture. Well. Something would have stood straight up anyway.

"I'll make you gentlemen a deal," Charles announced. He lowered his hands and Hank realized he was in his chair as he wheeled himself away from the desk. "I will help you find Mystique so you can determine if she is a part of this, and in return, you can give me your word that you will look into Somnacin, Inc after this is cleared up."

Arthur and Eames exchanged a look and Eames finally nodded at Charles. "What will it take to track her down?"

Charles smiled. "With a little luck, about ten minutes and a very special machine."

Hank started and leaned down, lowering his voice. "Wait, you mean you're off of the serum? Completely?" Charles didn't answer. "God damn it," Hank muttered. "You can't do that without telling me. You're going to make yourself sick, Charles."

"Gentlemen," Charles announced, "if you'll just follow me." He wheeled himself down the hall without looking back.

The dark cavern of Cerebro smelled like dust, which made Hank's nose itch and he dreaded the burning scent it would make when they turned it on. But Charles didn't seem to notice as he led them all through the secured door.

"Just what exactly does this do?" Eames asked, his voice echoing in the chamber.

"It allows Charles to expand his power," Hank supplied when it became obvious Charles wasn't going to.

"Your power to talk inside people's heads, you mean," Arthur said, and Hank smirked.

"Sure."

Charles started the machine and it whirred to life, sure enough, the scent of burning dust making Hank sneeze.

Arthur drew in a sharp breath and Hank looked over at him as he wiped his nose. His eyes were wide and he was standing rigidly, gaze dancing excitedly over everything. Charles didn't seem to notice though, closing his eyes as he donned the metal headpiece.

"Step back, please," he said, and all three of them gave him some room.

Arthur leaned over to Hank. "This machine is amazing. How—"

"Shh," he whispered, eyes glued to Charles. "Watch."

As they observed, ghosts of images and wisps of conversations started to float past them, projected onto the curved walls of Cerebro. Faster and faster they swept past, observed and rejected faster than Hank could process, and he glanced at the detectives with a slow smile as comprehension of what they were seeing crossed their faces. Noises and shadows swirled, seemingly at random, for several minutes until,

"Stop!" Eames said. "That's her. Go back."

At first it seemed as if Charles hadn't heard him, but Hank realized he'd recognized her voice at almost the same time Eames had. His field of vision had already narrowed, and the images overlaid a map as his search zoomed closer and closer in. Somewhere in southern Europe, although Hank wasn't great at geography, and the voice he recognized as Mystique's became clearer and clearer.

"You seem to think you have me figured out," they heard her saying. "So what makes you think I'm going to agree to that?"

Apparently they were only hearing her side of a conversation, but a monochrome image of her angry face was displayed on Cerebro's walls, the background around her hazy. Hank watched her expression move from angry to skeptical, and slowly to amused, but when it started to waver in and out of focus, Hank's gaze jerked to Charles.

He was grimacing, a light sheen of sweat on his face, and Hank took a step closer. Charles held up a hand without a word, and Hank stopped, but he no longer worried what Charles had found, only how far he'd push himself to get what he needed.

"Can you tell who she's talking to?" Eames asked. "Where is she? Can you pull back? Maybe we can get a—"

The picture blurred and finally went black.

"Charles!" Hank shouted, already reaching to pull the headset off.

"No, no, I can get her back," Charles said, his voice harsh and weak, and he sagged sideways in the chair, his fingers tight on the arms.

"The hell you can," Hank said, yanking the machinery off his head and only just resisting the urge to throw it as far as he could. He set it gently on the console and frowned at the detectives. "You need to leave. Now."

He thought Eames would argue, but he just looked at Charles and nodded tightly. "Come on, Arthur," he muttered, dragging the slimmer, slack-mouthed man behind him.

Charles didn't protest when Hank turned his chair around and wheeled him out of Cerebro.

Hank sighed. "Charles, you are just as moronic as you are brilliant and I hate you just… so much." He sighed again.


	6. Chapter 6

"Did you… did you see that?"

Arthur was walking fast, his arms swinging widely, his hair loose where he'd run his hands through it.

"Yeah, I saw it," Eames frowned. "She's not in America. She could have flown, and we can pull airline records, but the probability of—"

"I've never seen anything like that in my life!"

Eames looked at Arthur again, a beaming grin on his face as he looked at the sky. "Yeah, I guess so. The professor is a really powerful—"

"No, the _machine_," Arthur interrupted. "Did you _feel_ it?" His delighted eyes and unrestrained dimples were surprising, but he was grabbing Eames' arm in his excitement, his fingers clinging to his jacket.

"What do you mean?" he asked slowly.

"Like… in your bloodstream." His gestures were large and frantic. "I could feel it in my stomach and my fingertips and my _brain_, Eames. It was like someone had thrown a switch."

Eames slowed. "Well… technically someone did throw a switch."

Arthur didn't slow. "God damn, it was… I feel alive. I feel like I could fight an army. Or…"

He stopped in his tracks and looked back at Eames, and Eames raised an eyebrow at the heat in Arthur's gaze.

"_Oh_," Eames said. "Well, um, yeah, let's get someplace then."

"Yes," Arthur said, his voice hard. "Now."

* * *

Eames stared at the ceiling, feeling out of sorts. Arthur was still dozing, so he kept his hands to himself rather than stroking all the skin that was within reach.

A part of him had been reassured, seeing her. He'd been worried he wouldn't recognize her, but no. He'd know her anywhere, no matter what she looked like. But hearing her familiar voice, knowing she was okay… it was a balm on a wound he hadn't realized he'd been carrying.

Of course, it didn't mean she was safe, or innocent, or being careful. But she was whole and alive, at least for now. And knowing that was churning up things he hadn't felt in a long time. Protectiveness, worry, and a streak of pride at how well she was making it in this world, none of which would be appreciated by her. Eames wasn't wild about it either, to be honest. He had his own things to worry about, and he'd been dragged on this tangent because Raven _might_ have been involved. But it was looking more and more like this was probably a dead end.

Except he'd gotten to hear her voice. And it was the same one he remembered as a kid, slipping in next to her when she was too small to understand that crying for a parent wasn't going to make it better. They would whisper in the dark until she fell asleep, and he would feel the same swell in his chest.

Eames sat up, the ceiling fan of the seedy motel room spinning uselessly. He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes before getting up, reaching for his shirt as he went to get some water.

"Do you ever drop your mask?" Arthur asked quietly. Eames didn't answer right away, and Arthur rolled over to look at him.

He looked soft and warm, skin and sheets and late afternoon sun. Eames wanted to keep him.

"It isn't more me than this is," he finally said, buttoning his shirt.

Arthur shrugged a shoulder. "I'd still like to see."

Eames bit the inside of his lip and studied a crack in the plaster. "I don't… want that."

Arthur nodded slowly and let it go, and Eames was grateful.

When they were dressed and in the car again, Arthur driving, Eames asked where they were going.

"Back to the office. I wanted to track down some more information about that dream den owner, that Yusuf Whatshisname."

Eames groaned. "Really, darling? After such a lovely day, you're going to make me sit behind a desk? What did I ever do to you?"

Arthur fixed him with a look. "And what did _you _have in mind?"

"We investigate this Yusuf in person! With our detective skills! You know," Eames grinned. "Talking him to death."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "The dream den is on the other side of town, Eames."

"Oh, I'm sorry, does your car only go west?"

"No, but I have to go all the way around the cemetery and up Highway 2 to get there, which is—"

"You don't have to take Highway 2," Eames scoffed.

Arthur looked at him dubiously. "Yes, you do."

"No, you don't."

"Yes. You do."

"No. You—"

"Eames!" Arthur snapped. "You can't take Waldorf north, okay, I know what I'm—"

"Just take a u-turn after the cemetery; it cuts at least ten minutes off your drive time."

"I'm not going to take a u-turn there, Eames, the car doesn't like it."

"..."

There was a long pause as Arthur appeared to realize what he'd said, and then he set his jaw while staring stonily out the window.

"The car doesn't _like_ it, Arthur?"

"Shut up. I mean, you can hear the gears getting all grindy; it's hard on the transmission. That's what I meant."

Eames couldn't help but grin stupidly at him, already excited to bring that up over and over again.

"Well. If the car doesn't like it."

"I said shut up."

Eames swallowed the laugh which threatened to escape and cleared his throat. "Ariadne might be able to help. Maybe she can get us an appointment with this owner guy, we can ask questions, and then _after,_ you can research him to your heart's delight. Deal?"

Arthur looked miffed but eventually grunted, "Deal."

Eames lasted about 15 seconds before saying, "Did you want to check with the car first?"

* * *

"I don't know what to tell you, mate," Yusuf, the owner, explained testily. "The records are sealed, like I said, for confidentiality reasons."

Eames, who had liked the bloke at first, gritted his teeth and smiled. "But if you can't answer our very simple questions, then I'm afraid Arthur here is going to have to get a search warrant. And the search warrant will unseal those records, make them part of a case file, and possibly be included as public documents in a trial. And I'm sure your client would prefer one question answered rather than all their information handed over, hmm?"

Arthur kept his mouth shut and Yusuf appeared to contemplate the validity of what he was saying, of which there was none or close to it, and eventually he sighed.

"What did you want to know, again?"

Eames mentally threw a fist in the air and looked to Arthur, pen and notebook poised and at the ready.

"We want to know if the dream session you set up for Mr. Saito had anything out of the ordinary, technically speaking."

Yusuf leaned back in his chair and considered them. "Well, I will have to check with Mr. Saito to see if he will authorize—"

But Eames was already shaking his head. "You don't understand. We already _have_ his authorization, we are here on his behalf. And we're looking for information he can't give us." He counted them off on his fingers. "The drugs, the dosage, the settings on your machine, the dreamers who were in the dream at the same time. If you can't give us the information we need, we cannot solve this case. And that means it's going to get dragged through the court system and make everyone's life, no pun intended, a living nightmare."

Yusuf frowned and drummed his fingers on his desk. Like it was summoned, a large tabby cat jumped up out of nowhere and landed on Yusuf's lap, pushing its head under his annoyed fingers.

He stroked the cat and said, "Alright, Detectives," and Eames was forcibly reminded of a Bond villain. "I will tell you two things and then you will get out of my business and never return."

Arthur grunted and readied his pen, and Eames held back the assertion that they would come back whenever they bloody well felt like it and good luck trying to stop them.

"The first," Yusuf continued, "is that the custom dream package Mr. Saito ordered, while it was… let's say 'unique', it was nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing particularly irregular happened while in the dream, and nothing was recorded or leaked about his dream session."

"And how do you know that?" Arthur asked before Eames could.

Yusuf gave them a humorless smile. "Because I was the only other one in the dream with him."

Arthur jotted it down like it hadn't fazed him, and Eames sat back. "Is that common practice?" Eames asked. "You going into the dream with the customer?"

"Not at all," Yusuf said. "But Saito's dream request was robust, and it needed a practiced hand. I prepared the dreamspace, brought his subconscious into it, and stayed to maintain the stability of the dream."

Arthur narrowed his eyes. "Anything you can tell us about the dream?"

Yusuf raised his eyebrows knowingly and stroked his cat. "No. It was as I said. Nothing out of the ordinary."

Eames, sensing a dead end, changed the subject. "You said you would tell us two things. What's the other?"

The change in Yusuf was subtle, but Eames could tell Arthur noticed as well. He leaned forward and shooed the cat away, like he was eager to talk about it. There was a curious glint to his eyes. "Generally, the drug we administer is mixed in-house from ingredients sent by the company. I oversee each batch, and the chemistry is very exact. But for Mr. Saito's dream…"

"Did the batch get mixed incorrectly?" Eames couldn't help but guess into the silence. Arthur glared at him.

But Yusuf was already shaking his head. "No, this batch came pre-mixed. Some kind of special blend, directly from the corporate manufacturers. I didn't even know they _made_ custom batches like that."

Eames looked at Arthur only to see him looking right back. "Anything you can tell us about the drug?" Arthur ventured.

This time Yusuf shook his head sadly. "I don't know anything about its mixture, but I can tell you it was very smooth. The dream was so crisp… I've never had anything like that before. I have no idea how Mr. Saito managed to get his hands on that, and it must have cost a fortune. But whatever he paid for it… it was worth it."

His tone made the hairs on Eames' arms stand up. He'd heard a junkie or two with the same amount of reverence for their drug of choice. But his intensity was humbling and Eames felt more than saw Arthur close his notebook.

"Thank you for your time…"

Arthur's platitudes faded into the background as Eames' brain churned through the new information. They walked to the car, Eames not really looking where they were going, when he saw Arthur glancing at him curiously.

"You have that look on your face," he said. "What are you thinking?"

Eames grinned at him. "What look?"

"You know. That look you get when you're close to figuring it out."

Eames shook his head. "Not close. Just a thought. Let's head back to the office. I promised you some good, hard research time."

He didn't think he was imagining the interested eyebrow-lift that particular innuendo produced.

* * *

Eames checked Arthur's posture as they walked back up the drive to Professor Xavier's house. He looked tired, frustrated. His head was up though, and his jaw was set, which was a bad sign for the bad guys and also a bad sign for going home on time. But that was okay. He rang the bell before he realized the professor hadn't invited them in by speaking inside their heads.

Hank stood on the other side, nodded, and opened the door wider.

"Charles is sleeping right now, and I'd ask that you not wake him. Is there something I can help you gentlemen with?"

He sounded stiff, formal. Still mad about earlier, then. Well, he supposed he could understand that. "Came to talk to you, actually. Thought you might have some insight."

Hank cocked his head, interest piqued, and led them to the sitting room from before. "Alright. What can I do for you?"

Arthur explained what they'd learned from Yusuf at the dream den. "So since the compound was ordered directly from the manufacturer, I did some digging."

He opened the file he'd been carrying, passing things to Hank as he talked, and Eames bit down on a smile. So much for 'no civilians' on Arthur's cases.

"I found quarterly statements for Somnacin, Inc, and there's nothing out there about manufacturing. But what I did find," Arthur said, pointing, "is a pretty hefty allocation for an R&D department. It supports the earlier data about it being refined and not produced."

Hank rubbed his chin and Eames wandered the room, looking at the book spines but not really seeing them.

"And I don't suppose there's any way to get a sample of the special blend used for that dream?" Hank asked.

Arthur shook his head. "What are you thinking?"

Hank sighed. "I'm thinking they used a higher dosage of gene derivative. Or a more concentrated dose. Something like that."

Arthur nodded. "Yeah, that's what I was thinking too." He looked at Eames and Eames gave a slight shake of his head. He knew where this was going and he didn't like it. He didn't like it at all.

Arthur frowned and jerked his head toward the hallway. "Hank, if you'll excuse us one second."

He buttoned his jacket as he walked and Eames closed the doors behind him, leaving them alone in the echoey hall. "Arthur…"

"We have to."

Eames put his hands on his hips and sighed, staring at the arched ceiling.

"If this was any other lead, we'd follow up."

"This is a fucking can of worms, Arthur. I'm telling you that right now." He pointed, finger in Arthur's chest. "You go opening it, and this whole mess is on _you_, mate. I want nothing to do with it."

Arthur slapped his hand away. "Well, what do you suggest? We've got no other leads, we're no closer to finding the blackmailers that we were on day one. And _I_ don't want to have to explain to Cobb how we spent an outrageous amount of taxpayer dollars on an undercover dream den session that amounted to squat."

"Uncovering dirty money or shady ethical practices at Somnacin Inc is _not_ the case we're meant to be solving," he hissed. "You think that's just going to be a footnote? You think Cobb will _thank _you for investigating the most financially profitable company in the country?"

"I don't give a _shit_ if Cobb is going to—"

"Good afternoon, gentlemen."

Arthur's jaw snapped shut so fast Eames swore he heard a click.

Charles wheeled himself down the hall toward them. "I didn't know you'd be joining us today. Is there something I can help you with?"

Arthur looked at him, jaw like steel, and Eames felt his fists curl in frustration. He looked away, shaking his head, and Arthur approached the professor.

"Yes, I think you might be able to," he said, and Eames blew a frustrated breath out of his nose.

Charles looked curious and Eames crossed his arms as Arthur explained.

"We're grasping at straws here, Professor," Arthur said. "And we were hoping if you were able to track down the mutant used for the enhanced dreaming compound, they might be the link between the blackmailer and how he's gathering evidence against the victim."

Charles looked over their shoulders and Eames turned to see Hank, alert and livid, standing in the doorway.

An unspoken conversation was happening between the two men and Eames shared a look with Arthur. Whatever was going on, Hank wasn't a fan of them or what they were asking. Eames hated to admit it, but he didn't have any other ideas at the moment for tracking down their blackmailer. If Hank convinced Charles not to help them, they really were back at square one.

"We promised we'd look into it," Eames said, ungratefully. "And now we are. And if during the course of tracking down a blackmailer we only end up saving a life, I'd say that's a day well spent."

Arthur looked at him in surprise, and Eames felt a pang of hurt at that. He was a cop, wasn't he? Doing the right thing was essentially what he did for a living. Give him a break if the straight and narrow was just a little too straight and a little too narrow-minded most of the time.

Charles, however, looked at him appraisingly and then angled his chin. "Come on, then."

"Charles," Hank protested.

"You too, Hank," he replied, already turning his chair. "I'll need your help."

For a moment, Eames thought he wouldn't, but finally, Hank gritted his teeth and followed, and Eames brought up the rear, hands in his pockets, and wondering exactly what a man like Hank, who could clearly handle himself, could be so afraid of.


End file.
